Conversations
by alwayssomethingelse
Summary: 'Hidden scenes' between Harry and Ruth, and occasionally other characters, starting at the end of 8/02. Trying to stay canon, and to give weighted meaning to some of the canon conversations... (Previous one shots Plus ca change and A different perspective can be counted as prequels, but don't need to be read.)
1. Happy to try

**Title:** Conversations

**Fandom**: Spooks/MI5

**Characters**: Harry Pearce, Ruth Evershed, Jo Portman

**Rating**: K

**Summary**: A series of 'hidden scenes', mostly between Harry and Ruth, but also Jo. Starting at the end of 8/02, although _Plus ca change_ and _A Different Perspective_ may be seen as prequels. Trying desperately to stay canon, at least for now...

**Disclaimer**: Much as they are in my heart, Spooks characters are owned by Kudos, as are any lines you may recognise.

**A/N:** Please do let me know what you think!

* * *

They are walking in a covered walkway, the sun breaking through wire mesh to occasionally dance on their faces, and he has just admitted that she was right. Jo wonders if perhaps this might be the moment to press her advantage.

"She should come back to us. If you talked to her..." She risks a glance to see what kind of a reception the words meet. It's not just for herself that she wants Ruth back - although she has deeply missed her friend - but she knows that Section D would work a lot more smoothly if...

"She's extremely fond of you Jo. She thinks the Service needs more people like you. I can try and sort the logistical side of things out with the Home Secretary, but...if you continue to meet her...?" He is doubting his own importance to Ruth, just as she was doubting her importance to him. Jo has the urge to get the two of them in the same room and bang their heads together. It's really not that difficult. But, of course, this is Harry, and this is Ruth, and it is that difficult.

"I'm happy to try." There is no point in telling him that it will take him, and him alone, before Ruth will agree. But she had already arranged to meet up with her friend, so it's not like he's asking her to something she wouldn't be doing anyway.

"Good." The soft, sad, almost hopeful tone to his voice nearly breaks her heart. She doesn't need any persuasion, but if she did... "Don't go behind my back again though, I'll have you deported to Tazhbekstan."

"Understood." Poor Harry, if only he realised the amount of times one or other of them had gone behind his back, to try and help him open his eyes. But the smile on his face is endearing, and the thought that they might see it more often if she is successful is a warming one.

* * *

They meet by the Orangery in Holland Park. There is an excellent ice cream booth that has been there for years, and Ruth has missed the Amaretto flavour that was her favourite, once upon a time. They walk in silence, for a while, round the back of the building, tracing the paths around the fish pond, enjoying the autumnal flowers. A large Koi swims lazily up to the surface to assess them.

"The Gas problem seems to have calmed down." Ruth cannot help herself, now she is here, back. It is an itch she keeps scratching. It is the only thing she knows, here, and to not be a part of it is becoming daily more irritating.

"Yeah. Not quite how we wanted it. And we lost Bibi. I don't think she could have lived, though."

"What happened? Asides from what the news reported?"

"Harry came round to the fact that we couldn't sacrifice her - for which I am grateful to you, Ruth - and decided that the only option was to take Urazov out of the equation. Obviously, we couldn't be seen to do that."

"Obviously."

"It was my idea. I knew Bibi wanted Urazov dead, more than anyone. I knew she had a good reason to want him dead, and that it would look like the Russians were behind it. So we put it to her, explained what would happen - like that time at the African Summit - and she agreed. Everything went to plan, until, after killing him, she shot herself too. I was there, Ruth. I was her handler, and the bait for Urazov. I couldn't stop her." Her voice is leaden with guilt, and Ruth can see Jo is struggling, as she stares at the golden fish, and shreds the remains of her icecream tub.

"Jo, by the sounds of it, if she hadn't done it there, she would have done it shortly afterwards."

"I know. And she had it planned. She left me a note at her flat. But the worst thing was - someone, probably the Russians, had spotted me, beforehand, at her flat. And again, after the hit."

"And of course, being the friendly, sharing types that they are, gave the evidence to Tazhbekstan?"

"Yup. All that, for nothing."

"But it wasn't for nothing, Jo."

"Wasn't it? Bibi is dead, the Tazhbeks will never trust us, and we ended up doing a deal with Russia, which was supposedly unthinkable a few days ago."

"You gave a wounded person a chance. We're not doing a deal with a modern Hitler in the making, and we have gas enough to keep the country ticking over. Sometimes you have to look at the simple side. You said it yourself, Bibi wouldn't have been able to live, either way."

"Maybe." Jo cannot help but note the "we", but she dare not press too quickly.

Finding a bin, they walk onwards, past a preening Peacock, and some Squirrels running after tourist thrown nuts. The Kyoto Garden seems quiet, considering the weather, and they climb the white stone steps to it.

"I've missed this place. I used to come here, now and then, in the summer. It's always peaceful, no matter what's happening elsewhere." Ruth looks around her with evident pleasure. The garden is simple, elegant. Not fussy, or crowded; not complicated or over sentimental,

"I'm surprised you had time. We always thought it was a close call between you and Malcolm as to who spent more time on the Grid."

"Have you heard from him? Malcolm?"

"No. Not yet. I expect he's busy, catching up on reading. Did you ever see his pile of books? He called it his retirement plan, and none of us believed him."

"I was never in Malcolm's home." She turns to Jo, pausing their steps. "He came to see me, Malcolm. Before Nico's aunt arrived. He said it was because he wanted to see me, but really, I think he just wanted to check on Nico. I can never repay him, for what he did."

"And he wouldn't ask it."

"I know... I know. But it seems strange to think he's left the Grid. I can't imagine what it feels like, without his presence."

"You could always come and see." Without realising it, Jo is holding her breath, bated, unsure. Was it too soon, too quick?

"That's likely. They don't let dead people walk around Thames House, unless things have changed." She is mildly derisive, but there is a small enquiry there, just to see if Jo is intentionally taking this where Ruth thinks she is.

There is a patch of grass just here, dry and warm in the sun, without the white chain barrier that keeps much of the ground unstepped on. Ruth spreads her coat on the ground and sits down, leaving ample room for her companion. The sun is on their backs, and causing the little lake to gleam like silver, flashing in their eyes. Legs stretched out, arms behind them, propping them up, they are a mirror image.

"I think they might make an exception for you."

"They? Or Harry?"

"Both, really." Jo glances at her friend, but Ruth is steadfastly squinting at the ducks on the pond. "Did you ever think about it, us, when you were gone?"

If anyone other than Jo asked her that question, at that moment, Ruth would lie. Shake her head carelessly, artlessly, say it hadn't crossed her mind. They'd probably know it was a lie, but she'd defend it until they gave up. But this is Jo, and there is something childlike, disarming, in the way she asks.

"Yes." The word is simple. The tone is simple. A simple statement of fact. If only it were that simple. If only she could share the fact that she had never stopped thinking of the Grid. Of her friends, some of whom were long dead, little she knew. Of him. Oh, she had banished the thoughts, or tried to, every single day. She would shake her head slightly, to dislodge them; pass a hand across her eyes to stop seeing them; focus on her clerical work, or the bustle of the market, or the clarity of the water she swam in. But they were always there. Wondering what they were doing, where they were, how they were. She had stopped reading anything other than local news, because she could see their faces behind the headlines. But she never forgot the adrenalin of successfully stopping a threat. She never forgot the laughter. She never forgot him. Waking at 5am every day, no matter how hard she tried not to, she could not help but wonder how he was; as he dressed for work, where he was as the dawn broke, winking out the stars that covered them both, what he was meeting as he walked through the pods. She never forgot, and she never stopped thinking like a Spook. Not really. Which was what had brought her back here, and was what was pulling at her now.

"Yes. I did think about the Grid. A bit. It was... a hole. But we carry on, Jo. God knows, we can't go back in time."

"No." Jo is pensive, quiet for a moment. "But we can move forward." Now it is her turn to look firmly at the ducks peacefully floating by, and ignore Ruth's thoughtful eyes as they cloud over for a second.

"Thanks Jo. It's good to see you." She pauses, gathering herself. "It's still a bit strange. Everything. Being here, I mean. I don't quite know who I am." They're standing, now, and she is re-tying the belt of her coat firmly around herself.

"Will you think about it?"

"About what?" Ruth's voice is completely neutral, and Jo takes the warning with a slight nod.

"It's good to see you too, Ruth. Give me a call, if you'd like to meet up again."

"I dare say you're far too busy saving London."

"I make time for my friends, Ruth. That's the way I know myself."

Ruth nods and quickly grasps her friend's arms in a swift hug.

"Look after yourself, Jo. And...look after him." She turns abruptly and walks away, steps short and quick, head bowed.

Jo watches her leave, until her head is out of sight going down the steps, and then sits back down, staring unseeingly at the peaceful scene before her. The sun is pleasant, and she could sit here forever. In her minds eye, she sees Bibi and Aarti, walking on the other side of the lake, arm in arm, laughing; golden in the light. Maybe Ruth is right.


	2. Moving forward

_Previously: After Harry asked her to, Jo has met with Ruth and started the ball rolling about Ruth coming back to the Grid. But we all know Ruth won't make that decision without having some form of conversation with Harry..._

* * *

She debates turning up on his doorstep. Wonders what his expression would be. Inscrutable, probably. Or maybe that little half smile, that she had seen when she approached him on Millbank. Or would it be slight annoyance, written across his eyes? No matter what Jo has said, she can't totally believe that Harry's emotional response to her return to Britain is in her favour. No matter what he himself has said, she cannot accept that she is wanted back on the Grid - that was just him saying what he could, to placate her anger.

No, she cannot turn up on his doorstep.

Instead, she sends him a text. Asks him to meet her at the Buxton Memorial Fountain, in Victoria Square Park. Asks him to let her know a time that suits.

His reply comes back before she places the phone back in her pocket. _Yes. Half an hour_. She smiles, a little, secretive smile, and goes to sit on the bench by the embankment. Maybe Jo was right, if he is willing to meet that quickly. She ignores the quiet voice in her head that points out that she was already there before she sent the text, which means she must have suspected Jo was right, all along. She also pretends she doesn't notice that he doesn't ask if she needs more time to get there.

She is standing by the fountain ten minutes early, and she is wise - Harry arrives five minutes before the allotted half an hour. He walks towards her, not speeding up, not slowing down, glancing at her occasionally, but then looking down, pressing his lips together. When he is standing by her side, she meets his eyes, nods.

"Thanks for coming."

"I'll always come to see you, Ruth." His voice is soft, caressing almost, and his eyes crinkle up a little as he says it. She has to look away. This hurts.

She leads the way to the nearest bench in silence, and sits, waiting for him to do likewise.

"Did you send Jo?"

"What makes you ask that?" He turns and looks at her, staring over at Lambeth Palace, determinedly not meeting his eye.

"As I recall, it was you who said I was a born Spook, Harry. I haven't lost that."

"I never thought you would."

"What, then?"

"I wondered...I doubted... If you would ever want that life again. It's not simple, you know that better than anyone."

"Maybe it's not. But what can I do now, Harry? Sit at home and knit? What else can I do?"

"Are you saying...?"

"I'm not saying anything. I'm asking if you sent Jo to talk to me." She has to know.

He is silent, for a while, staring over at the same spot on the palace roof as she is. Then he looks at her again, blinks, sighs, bows his head.

"Yes. And no. I knew she would be seeing you. I just asked her to..."

"to what?"

"to see if you might be open. To coming back." Now he has given himself away, he can only look at her in hope. She can almost hear the second hand of his watch tick in time to her heart. She pauses, carefully, deliberately.

"I won't go back, Harry."

"Ruth..." She is already rising, but the pain in his voice is not lost to her ears, and she cannot meet his eye.

"I said I won't go back, Harry. That doesn't mean I won't go forward."

As she walks away, without a backwards glance, Ruth mentally shakes her head. That did not go as planned. She'd had every intention of saying she would come back, but something of what Jo said has stuck with her - and Harry's reactions also seem to back up what was said, and somehow, she finds herself enjoying the suspense. Enjoying? Not quite. Savouring, perhaps. She has proved, twice now, that she is capable of approaching him. Now to see if he will approach her.

* * *

Harry sits for some time after Ruth leaves, head in hands, not thinking of anything, really. Will things never change? He supposes she is right, she can never go back. They can never go back. He was a fool to even entertain the thought that they could. They are not a moment, stuck in time. Not by the barge, not in the warehouse, not even on the rooftop, talking Charlie Chaplin.

'_That doesn't mean I won't go forward_.' What was that? An invitation? Or a threat? Can he bear the thought of her, working somewhere else? For someone else? Having a different life, after their lives came so close to reconnecting? Can he afford to just leave this to Jo, good as she is? After all, it's not her life. It will not actually cause her to lose sleep that Ruth is not walking in to the Grid of a morning, especially if their friendship is such that they continue to meet up outside of work. But it will cause him to lose sleep. Just like it has for the past three years. He would like to deny it, but every morning, when he wakes a moment before the alarm at five, his first thought has been for her. Wondering where she was. How she was. And frequently, as he watched the dawn break the horizon, he has imagined her looking up at the same stars, in their beauty and simplicity. As Fidget, Tinkle and Scarlet have competed for who gets their breakfast first, he has been inexplicably reminded of her bursting in to his office, demanding his attention, never knocking - and he has wished that he might live that experience, just one more time. Maybe it is time that he moves forward.

He is sitting on her doorstep when she arrives back, laden with groceries. Yes, he could have let himself in - has done it to so many people, so many times... but it doesn't feel right with her. He has a selection of muffins from a nice little bakery round the corner, as bringing a bottle isn't really appropriate. She doesn't seem that surprised, and silently lets him in behind her.

"I brought these. For you." He proffers the bag when she has placed her shopping haphazardly on the kitchen table.

"You shouldn't have." There is just a whisper of smile in her voice, and it reaches her eyes, before she looks away and begins to unpack the shopping. He watches her, momentarily, his eyes tracing the elegance of her wrists, the swift, calculated motion as she moves from table to cupboard, and back. She is ignoring him.

"Ruth." He is quiet, but authoritative. She pauses, a little bent over the table, and, finally, looks at him. His heart almost stops.

"Yes, Harry?"

"Ruth, come in to the Grid. Please. You are the best analyst we have had in years. Your absence has been felt by everyone. We have missed you. We need you." He keeps her gaze, eyes intently locked on hers. "I'm not saying it'll be the same as it was - you know better than anyone, it can't be. But please, come forward with us." She hears the unspoken 'with me', as he intends. She is silent, considering, ruminating. He does not push her. There is no chair in this half of the room, and nothing he can lean on, and so he stands, arms hanging loosely by his side, looking more than a little spent.

A movement from her side of the room startles him, and he realises she has gone back to her shopping. He fights the urge to go to her, to take her by the arms and try and impress upon her how important this is to him.

"Yes."

"What?" The breaking of the silence may have fooled his ears.

"Yes. I will. Rejoin the Grid, that is. But only because I believe Jo is right." She doesn't look at him as he says this, and Harry can't help but wonder if she is trying to put him in his place. Before he can make up his mind, she has turned to face him, asking "when do I start?"

"Whenever suits you. I don't want to put any rush on you."

"To be honest, I'd rather be busy. How about Monday?"

"That would be admirable."

"How does the Home Office feel about having a ghost working as a Spook?" Now she is broadly smiling.

"I took the liberty of having a discussion with the Home Secretary. That has all been cleared."

"A little presumptuous of you."

"Some things don't change, Ruth." He has moved towards her while speaking, and his voice is smooth and low, but before she has time to back away, he has briefly placed his hand on her arm, gripped it gently, and turned away.

She is still standing by the table when she hears the front door click.


	3. Change can be good

**Notes**: Thanks for all the reviews! Much appreciated! :)

This is not so much a hidden scene (although there are a couple of small ones), as some very visible scenes in 8x03 with a lot of hidden thoughts, and it sets up for at least one hidden scene between the end of 8x03 and the beginning of 8x04. With that in mind, **I need to reiterate my non-ownership of anything that you may recognise as belonging to BBC/Kudos/Spooks**. In other words, there's a lot of quoting going on.

Also, a little explanation... I'm really struck by the subtle change in the relationship dynamics between Harry and Ruth that start showing clearly in this episode. How Ruth seems more confident in herself (_professionally_) with Harry. Like something (wonderful that was never said?) has made her aware of her importance to him. How she seems to work with him on more equal terms now. So that's something I wanted to explore a bit in this chapter, especially as it's relevant to how she behaves towards him in 8x06 and 8x07... Ok, enough rambling. Please let me know what you think, and many thanks for reading! :)

* * *

It's not something he often does, sitting at a terminal on the Grid. He could pretend it is to be closer to the hub that is Tariq's desk, as the action unfolds in the underground bunker, and consequently, on the Internet - but when has he ever saved himself the few extra steps from his office? He could also pretend that he has need of some specific program on this terminal, but anyone with any technological skill knows that every piece of software is available to all the computers networked on the MI5 mainframe, providing one has the correct security clearance. Neither of these pretences would cut much ice, and he knows that, if challenged, he would have to resort to bluster and authority. What he will never admit to is the truth - that the chance of working back to back with Ruth is one that he cannot pass up - not on her first day back.

"I checked the immigration databases." She has risen from her desk, turned to face him and is leaning, most attractively, on the back of the chair. He is suddenly struck by her focus on him. Although she is still the same as she always was - good, solid, steady Ruth, who gets the work done quicker than anyone; who can charm water out of a stone, when she wants - there is a poise, an elegance; a confidence even, that is new. She meets his eyes firmly, assuredly. She moves with a clarity of purpose. She watches his every response - and doesn't try to hide it, like she used to. _Change can be good_.

"and?"

"Lambert has been out of the country a lot over this year, most notably two long stints in Russia. Where, not surprisingly, the trail ends, thanks to a spectacularly unhelpful FSB." Her eyes, effervescent in their changing colours - now vibrant cobalt, now silvery grey, now jade green - hardly leave his face, and he's finding it almost intrusive. If she looks any more deeply, she'll be inside of him, and then what will he do? And her voice, oh God, her voice. It has deepened slightly - or is it just that she does not falter as much as she used to? But what has not changed is her knowledge of her work.

"Not a unusual pilgrimage for an aspiring Bolshevik."

"No, he flew first class." She's teasing him, feeding him drops of information, watching how he responds, her piercing eyes glinting at each minute movement of his forehead as he forms and breaks ideas.

"Ah. So these are the antics of a rebel trustafarian?"

"Doesn't have a penny to his name." She's enjoying this almost too much, and it shows. If this wasn't her, if he weren't luxuriating in her presence, he'd order her to get on with it. But they've always been good at cat and mouse, and today of all days, he is determined to make the most of having her back.

"Then what?"

"Benefactor. An offshore company, of course." She's smiling at his confusion, at the fact that she holds all the cards. But she always did - hold all the cards - she just didn't seem to know it. He wonders, briefly, if it was her time in Cyprus that forged these changes, and if so, how.

"Of course."

"But the lawyer who set it up is based here." She's blinking more now, although continuing to meet his gaze, and he is pleased to realise that he can still read her facial language. He agrees with her, this is something that requires some more digging. It may just give them the lead they so desperately need.

"Look in to it." She dips her head in accord, and begins to move away from the terminal, away from him. He has turned in unison, before he finds himself speaking again, "and Ruth..."

"Yes Harry?" He resists the urge to glance back at her, knowing by the pause in the swish of her skirt that she has stopped to look at him.

"Good to have you back." The words are simple, almost clipped in tone, but he has to say something, has to acknowledge that, changes aside, he is glad to have his right arm here, once more.

"It's good to be back." He imagines her face as she says the words; she has watched him for a moment, looked down for a fraction of a second, before swiftly speaking to his back, and walking away. Some things do not change, and this brings a gentle smile to his face.

* * *

It's a bit odd. Being back here. But even with only a couple of hours under her belt, she's not sure she'd have it any other way. Certainly, after everything that's happened, she doesn't think it could be any other way. She fits the Grid, like a hand in a well worn glove - even after years of it being lost in the cupboard of time, it still slips on perfectly. Which is not to say that the hand hasn't changed - it has - and, she thinks, so has the glove, just a little. How many times had Harry joined the team bent over a terminal in the past, and never once does she recall him fetching a chair for her so that she doesn't hurt her back. And he didn't make a fuss about it - did it so swiftly and easily that she hardly noticed, until his hand was gently on her back, and she was sitting down, so naturally, as if this had happened every day of her former life on the Grid. But it hadn't. _Change can be good_.

And how many times does she remember Harry working at a terminal in the Grid proper? She can probably count them on one hand, if she gives it more than a moment's thought. There's probably an excellent reason for it, but off the top of her head, she can't think of one. Or, rather, she can think of one, but she's not sure it's work related. It's probably a good thing Tariq is so new: he doesn't yet have the experience to know that this is not your everyday Harry Pearce. Not your every day Knight of the Realm. At this, Ruth cannot help but smile, swiftly, secretly, before giving her mind to the wheel of intelligence seeking.

She is roused from the depths of information on this corrupt lawyer, Benson, by Tariq's voice, beckoning her to come and look at the video link he has continued to monitor. Before long, Harry is leaning over their shoulders, seeming shocked that the general public are actually voting, actually taking part in this trial of the people. He is tense, flustered almost. She, on the other hand, is not all that surprised. Many of the people won't actually realise what the result will be when the majority of votes come in for 'Guilty', and she's not being naive here - people really are that stupid. Ordinary, everyday folks. She got to know quite a few in her three years away, and while they're not daft over many things, like the price of milk, they are when it comes to the Internet. It's like TV to them. Not real. However, as the votes rise, she finds her own pulse speeding up, because she does know what the end result will be. They stare intently at the screen, watching the train wreck unfold. Nothing they can do. She had forgotten what it's like, moments like this.

"I don't want this turning in to even more of a media frenzy than it already is. The fact that this is taking place in London...hasn't been made public yet, has it?"

"Uh, no, but the, er, press will figure it out before the next trial kicks off." He nods gently, sadly, and pauses for a few still seconds before moving away.

Her terminal bleeps. The information on Benson has come through. Ruth scans it briefly, already calling him back.

"Harry, you should see this."

He turns, and leans in close behind her; hand on the back of her seat, forearm just resting on her back, head just above her head. She can smell his aftershave, and the slight tang of perspiration. His tie flops down over her shoulder.

"Ah. This might be what we need. Thank you Ruth. I'm going to bring Sarah Caulfield from the cousins in. I'll need you to come in with me. Let's see if we can't get the information from her. Shake the proverbial branches with the reminder that the world's press, when united, are even better than you at finding out pertinent information." He is already rising, one hand in his pocket for his phone, the other, briefly, laid on her back, warm and solid. "Well done." She flushes with pleasure before she can control it, but he has moved away, phone to ear.

* * *

They have got the information from Caulfield, relatively easily, Ruth thinks. She's not wildly enamoured of the blonde CIA agent, but then, she's never met a cousin she was particularly fussed on. Harry has voiced a point that she's been thinking all along - everyone else seems to be much more interested in stopping the trials in any way possible, and far less concerned with the potential loss of life. The Bendorf group may contain some spectacularly unpleasant examples of the human form, but all people deserve justice tempered with mercy. The American Security Services, as a whole, do not seem to share that moral viewpoint. So she is glad to see the back of the woman, exiting through the pods, and is roused from her reverie by a light touch to her arm. Harry's phone is going back in his pocket, his conversation with Lucas finished.

"Tea? I think it's needed. Although it'll have to be the instant stuff, I'm afraid." She nods in acquiescence to his invitation, and they walk in perfect, silent time to the machine. He fills two card cups with the brown liquid and hands one to her, his own already nearly to his lips. As they turn back, he glances at her consideringly.

"What did you do for tea? As I recall, you can't stand coffee."

"You can learn to like most things, when you have no other option. And there is something perversely pleasant about Cyprian coffee. It's certainly nothing like the instant stuff here, which I still hate. It's bitter, and strong, and remarkably soothing. Leaves quite an aftertaste, and always makes me want more." Most of that could apply to something... someone else, a lot nearer to hand, but she ignores that thought, and continues, "actually, I drank a lot of mint tea out there, and the wine was always good." He nods, thoughtful. They have reached the open door to his office.

"Come." It is somewhere between an invitation and an order. Somewhere between a boss and a friend. She walks in, ahead of him, and sits on the same chair that she had sat on only this morning - although it feels like a lifetime ago. He closes the door, softly, and, twisting another of the chairs round, sits facing her.

"We need to work out what's going on. Why would Rubiniov fund Lambert? To wipe out the competition? The man's already worth more than twenty billion." He needs to bounce ideas off her. Ruth licks her lips, which are suddenly dry, possibly due to her pulse rate inexplicably rising. It's not that they didn't share ideas, volley theories, work things out, in the past - but his way of bringing the situation about is different. It is closer. More intense. More...intimate. _Change can be good_.

"What if Rubiniov wasn't just out to grab some other oligarch's oil fields? What if he was after something much bigger?" He is watching her, as if he can see her thought processes - a mirror of how she watched him, earlier. She finds it rather exhilarating.

"Explain." He inclines his head, acknowledging that her thoughts have sped ahead of his. Her heart beating faster as the excitement of working out a theory with him takes over, she pauses to collect her thoughts and present them in a coherent fashion.

"If Lambert can make Gevitsky and Terasovich spill their guts...embarrass their patrons like this..." her eyes widen as they meet his, as if somehow, by doing this, he'll be able to see the idea formulating in her mind. He does, and begins to smile with understanding.

"It could cause a popular backlash in Russia and even help bring down the government." He's nodding in agreement, but she also notices his eyebrow raise, just slightly, as he ascertains that he has taken her correctly. Her own mind is running ahead.

"D'you think Lambert's idealistic crew know what this is really about?" The warmth in those liquid brown eyes meeting hers could melt her, if she let them - but melting right now would lessen the connection, and she is enjoying this private openness, this closeness to him, far too much to let that happen. This is how they are meant to be. This is them working together again, after so long. God, how she's missed it.

"I doubt it." The way he's looking at her now makes her heart almost stop. That little suggestion of a smile, flickering about his lips; that steady glance, straight in to her eyes. She feels a fluttering in her stomach. She hasn't been this excited in years. Three years, to be exact. "But if they did, if they knew they were being played..."

"...they might turn against Lambert." Now it's her turn to try and probe his mind through his eyes, and she realises she's leaning forward, as if physical proximity could bring their minds even closer. "How do we get this information to Ros?"

"It would have to come straight from the horse's mouth. We've no time for subtlety here Ruth. Speak to Jo, and tell her the situation." She nods, feeling suddenly weak. She hadn't realised how physically she'd been experiencing the connection between them, and right now, her legs are like butter. But this is no time for weakness, and the subtle meeting of true minds has climaxed, leaving her with work to do. She rises, grasping the cup of cold, forgotten tea.

* * *

"I'm moving in." Jo's voice comes clear over the loudspeaker, and in the silence that follows it is apparent that she is as good as her word. Harry glances over at Ruth, their eyes meeting and holding.

"And now we wait." He straightens, still keeping his gaze locked on her. It strikes him that he has rediscovered something he couldn't have put in to words that he was missing - this connection with her eyes, wordless conversations, queries, reassurances. The look she is giving him now, for example, tells him he has made the right call. That doesn't stop either of them being nervous as hell. This could all still go pear shaped.

The Grid is strangely quiet; Tariq has gone downstairs for something, and the junior analyst must have gone to the canteen. There is nothing they can do, but wait. Without thinking, he moves the step or two that it takes to stand by her shoulder. Hand on the back of her chair. Hand on her back. It seems natural enough, and she doesn't flinch. A clock ticks. He can hear his own heart. He fancies he can even hear hers. They both jump when his mobile rings. It is in his office.

"Thank you." The words drip out, low and painful. He has had to sit down to hear this news. He's not sure he can move, if not ever again, then certainly for a few minutes. The room feels suddenly close, his chest like it is clad in iron. He finds himself sightly gasping, panting for air.

She knows something is wrong. He can see it in her body as she moves silently in to the office, stands before his desk.

"Harry." He forces himself to meet her eyes. The intimacy of their earlier meeting is breached by the anguish that travels wordlessly from him to her. His mouth opens a couple of times, and closes. Of all the people. Of all the moments. Of all the calls to make. Finally, he manages to speak one word, a whisper so low she might not hear it if it wasn't him.

Her eyes turn almost black, tears building and brimming. This is too much. Too soon. She shakes her head a couple of times, nods, her mouth opening and closing in sheer, unwilling, belief. She looks rather like she cannot stand. Turns away, shaky, shaking. Leaves the room silently. He doesn't see where she goes. Right now, he can't see anything, but a pair of black lined eyes grinning at him, shining in bright sunlight, blinking at a jokey threat of deportation. He'd been so concerned for Ros, all day, he'd never even considered worrying about Jo, even when she stepped in to the lift, barring the possibility that the entire building could go up.

The sound of sobbing slowly eases its way in to his consciousness, and he realises it is coming from just the other side of the wall, but he still cannot move, helplessly locked in the moment of grief.

* * *

She is crying for her friend. For the person who epitomised everything she thought was right in the Service. For the innocence. More, she is crying because she thought he made the right call. Because she knows, in her heart of hearts, that it is still the right call. That she would have made it too, in his place. That is what hurts the most: knowing that twice in close succession, he had made the right call, in intolerable circumstances, and that each time, good, kind, true people have been sacrificed. And it is still the right call.

_I'm going to need you today Ruth_, he had said, and she had meant it when she replied _damn well hope so_; but right now, she's not sure she can give what he needs. Right now, she needs him just as much. She feels another sob rising in her throat, and chokes it back. She knows his limitations. Knows them _better than most_. Before that dank, grey morning on the pier, she would never have made the first move. Or any move. He hadn't intended anything, let alone everything that had happened, and nor was it his fault. But he had said he would need her today, and he had been proved right. Could she now live up to her own words?

Unsteadily, holding on to the wall for support, she moves back towards the office door. _Change can be good._


	4. A time to grieve

_Set immediately following the end of 8x03. This section originally contained the hidden scene that leads in to the beginning of 8x04 as well, but it was getting way too long, so I thought I'd post this it first..._

* * *

She enters the office slowly; grasping the wall, the door, a chair - anything to steady the legs that will insist on feeling like jelly. Judges the distances from the chairs to the desk, and starts to assess whether she can make it without something to hold on to. On the other side of the table, he sits slumped, head in his hands, still breathing oddly. He is ashen hued, and if she were to think about it, she knows she probably is too. The neckline of her top is damp upon her skin where the tears have fallen.

"Harry." It is little more than a whisper, barely controlled. The sound is strange to her ears, like someone else's voice, in a movie or old fashioned radio play. He doesn't stir.

"Harry." Stronger this time. Less shaky.

It is the third time she says his name that he looks up, straight into her eyes, and they break her heart. His eyes are deadened, empty and entirely lost. She has never seen him like this; not when Danny or Fiona were killed, not when the news came through about Clive McTeggart, not even at Colin's murder. The expression that greets her is enough to galvanise her own movements. She goes swiftly to the cupboard, takes out his whisky, and a tumbler; with trembling hands pours him a measure, sets it in front of him.

"Drink it, Harry." He obeys, wordlessly. She watches him, and is relieved to see just a grain of colour come back. She retraces her steps back to the front of the desk, and stands, waiting for him to speak. It takes her all her strength not to touch the hand that lies helpless, lifeless almost, on top of some abandoned paperwork, but it is more important that he is brought back to some level of functioning - and fast. The ramifications of any physical contact would require too much analysis for either of them, right now, and as such, cannot be contemplated.

"What happened?" Silence. "Tell me, Harry." He looks up at her again, and there is a glimpse of movement in the deep brown eyes that meet hers. But he is still struggling to get a word out, and she adds "you're going to have to brief the Home Sec, Harry. And then you have to go down there. Tell me." There is something in her tone, rather like a mother commanding a child; gentle but firm. She has almost completely boxed away her own emotions now: getting Harry fit to deal with the coming hours is more pressing than her own grief. Once, he had told her that there would be a time to grieve, but it is not now. True words. She is just debating repeating them out loud, when he finally speaks.

"It was Ros. Somehow Jo was holding Lambert, who had the detonator in his hand, and Ros had to take the shot. The bullet passed through him, into Jo." The words are uttered in a flat, quiet monotone, and Ruth feels what little colour there is in her cheeks drop away. She grasps the desk. _There will be time to grieve later, Ruth_. Takes a deep, steadying breath. _We're the ones who have to stay focused and sort this out._

"I'm going to make us some tea." He watches her go, her steps still a little uncertain, but swifter than they were. As she leaves the office, she can hear the bottle and tumbler chink together again. Tea is definitely needed.

All the way to the little kitchenette, his words pound in her ears. _It was Ros. It was Ros. It was Ros_. No wonder Harry is so knocked back. She can't even begin to think of how this will hit the team. How Ros must feel. She's never been all that fond of the blonde field agent, finding her too cold and hard, not to mention difficult to trust - but her own defining trait, for better or worse, is imaginative compassion. And she knows Ros is not stupid, whatever else she may be - she will have known the possibilities, probabilities, before taking the shot; known it was the only way of saving the entire roomful, including Jo, from being blown up. At this, Ruth doubles over the work surface, head nearly meeting the kettle. A moan escapes her lips. _There will be a time._ She straightens, assembles cups, teabags, milk, liberal amounts of sugar in one mug. Sweet tea. The British cure-all.

By the time she has returned, Harry is on the phone. By the tone of his voice, she guesses it's to the Home Secretary. The tumbler lies empty before him.  
"Yes." Pause. His eyes roll. "Yes. I understand that." Pause. "Yes." He's nodding, impatiently. "I'm going there now." She can see the strain on his face as he keeps things polite. "Yes. I will." Click. Looks up at her.

"There are times when I could consign all politicians, no matter how decent they may be, to the very depths of hell." She sets the tea in front of him, and he lifts it almost immediately. Drinks deeply. Grimaces. Sighs. "Full of platitudes, of course. The same man who only half an hour ago gave the order that would have consigned the entire cellar full, plus the CO19 operatives to being blown up. Only a politician..." She nods, stepping backwards and taking a seat, hunching over her own mug.

They are silent for a time. The crisis has passed, Ruth thinks. He is beginning to function again, although the toll taken is still very visible. There is something companionable, though, in the way they sit, not looking at each other, not speaking, yet together. The hiss of the pods breaks their reverie. Tariq is back. Finding the grid empty, he pokes his head round the door.

"What's happening?" He looks so young, so chirpy that Ruth cannot bear to watch as he looks eagerly from one to the other, before Harry quietly informs him of the news. Out of the corner of her eye, she is aware of him nodding, passing a hand over his eyes, and turning away. She can hear the screech of his chair as he pulls it out, the dull thud as he falls in to it. Harry sighs, deeply.

"I have to get over there. Will you... Would you arrange a car for me? Please." They stand in unison and he gathers his mobile, and his greatcoat, before casting a glance round the room to check there's nothing else needed. She gives him space to exit the room, walking out behind him, following him to the pods. "I'll probably be gone for an hour or so. And there'll be any amount of paperwork to do when I get back. Best get the decks cleared as best as possible before then. I'm relying on you. We'll need to debrief Ros..." he shivers, holding his coat close.

"Of course." She's not entirely sure what she's responding to - but the words are relevant to everything he's just said. He's stepping in to the pods, shoulders slumped.

"And Ruth?"

"Yes Harry?"

"Thank you." The words are quiet but warmly spoken, just before the doors hiss closed. She nods once to his watching eyes, and then both turn away.

The Grid is full of ghosts as Ruth walks back, unseeingly, to Harry's office. Picks up the phone, orders the car, replaces the handset. Puts the whisky away, clears the tumbler and their mugs. Danny, Fiona, Colin, Zaf, Adam; even faces she doesn't know - Sally, Ben, Connie. All the ghosts are gathering to welcome one of their own. She jerks her head trying to dislodge the thoughts flying there. Goes back to the kitchenette, makes more tea, returns to the Grid and finds Tariq staring blankly at his monitor.

"Here, I thought you could do with it." She's already sitting down when he thanks her.

"Some first day, huh?" His voice is breaking, and she can feel him looking at her. She takes a breath and says, steadily,

"There will be time to grieve later. Right now, we need to clear the decks, be ready for Harry bringing Ros and Lucas back, be ready for the briefings, the enquiries, the officialdom. We need to stay focused. But I promise you, there will be a time to grieve." The tone behind her words gives him pause, and when he next speaks, he seems calmer.

"This isn't the first time, for you, is it?" Uncontrollably, an image of Danny passes through her mind, and she has to close her eyes for a second to blink away the tears that will come.

"No. No, it's not. And it doesn't get any easier. Never let anyone tell you it does. But you learn...you have to learn...to stay focused. We don't have the luxury of turning off... of sedation, tempting though it is. Harry is relying on us." He nods thoughtfully, takes a sip of his tea and turns back to the terminal.

"Thanks Ruth. I'm glad you're here."


	5. Something else

Somewhat slower, the hidden scene before the beginning of 8x04. The hardest bit was working out why on earth Harry and Ruth would be sat on a bench at the Isle of Dogs, of all places, whether on a working day or a day off! It's not like it's at all convenient to either of their homes, or Thames House...

**Thanks again for all the comments and reviews! They're all very much appreciated! **

**Disclaimer**: I still don't own the Spooks characters, or any lines you may recognise, much to my heart's sorrow.

* * *

The Sunday of that week.

It has been a strange week, Ruth reflects, as she sits up in bed, cradling a morning cup of tea. Busy. Very busy. You don't lose a member of your team to a bullet from another member of your team without acquiring an awful lot of paperwork and general chaos.

Harry had been gone a good hour by the time Lucas appeared, frazzled and still somewhat damp in places. Ros had refused to leave Jo until the ambulance had arrived to remove the bodies. Harry had, accordingly, refused to leave Ros, finally bringing her back to the Grid with him, by which time a thin veneer of calm was covering the worst of her emotions. The most painful bit had possibly been the debrief, completed by Harry and Ruth herself. It was Ros's way to be hard and cold when upset, as if that would protect her, but by her manner it was clear that she was only just holding it together. Finally, Harry had ordered her to take the rest of the week off, told her to go home, to do whatever it took to relax, to not worry about work on the Grid, that would be covered. There had very nearly been a screaming row at this point, narrowly averted by Ros's determination not to break in front of Ruth. She went. It was easily midnight before the rest of them left the Grid, and they were all back at seven the next morning. And so it continued, all week. In the midst of all this, she had been required to go for various inane training sessions, so that the powers that be could reassure themselves that she was still capable of doing her job, as well as up to date with new protocols and regulations. Just what any of them needed.

And amidst all of that, she has had the trial of getting used to being back there. The pace of life - so very different to the last three years in Cyprus, the attitudes and behaviours, and of course, being around him again. At no point since she had watched him exit through the pods on Monday afternoon have they had time alone. She isn't sure how she feels about that. If, somehow, fate had given them that opportunity, to consolidate on Monday's intimate companionship, she feels certain they would have managed to clear the air. Instead, and she knows it is primarily down to her, there is, once again, a slight barrier in place.

It is a luxurious ten am, and her tea is cold. Flinging back the white bed linen, she slips her feet into fuzzy slippers and heads downstairs. Kettle on, toast on, butter, marmalade; so very British. She has fallen back in to this life so easily, it is as if she has never been away.

No, that's not true. Almost, but not quite. Back in to the rush and run of it all: the early mornings following late nights; the books read on bus journeys; the not-seeing-the-light-of-day working hours; the adrenaline that rushes to the heart like a mainlined espresso. None of that is changed. But the team is different now - and will be more so as they come to terms with the loss of Jo. Her place in it has definitely altered, matured. The only people who remain from her previous tenure are Harry and Ros. She is no longer the brilliant but naive desk girl - not in reality, and not in the way that she is treated. She even had the strength to say that she was switching off her mobile until first thing Monday morning - her time off is going to be her own. And with that, Ruth gives herself a shake, reminds herself that she does not belong to the Grid today, and considers what she might do for entertainment. A museum, perhaps. Or one of the parks. It is a nice day, sunny, although probably quite chilly. It's a long time since she's been to the British Museum, and she could wander down to Covent Garden afterwards. That would be pleasant, relaxing.

The house phone rings. She stiffens. She hasn't given that number to many people. Picks up the phone. Listens. A momentary silence on the other end, and then;

"Ruth, are you there?" Her relief is audible.

"Harry."

"I hope I'm not disturbing you?" He is cordial, polite, even. She cannot help but respond in kind.

"Not at all. I was just enjoying doing nothing."

"I was wondering if you... Would you... Like to do something today? Together, that is." Her eyebrows shoot up in surprise. Swapping the phone to the other hand, she scratches her head through half sticking up hair that hasn't seen a brush yet.

"Ruth?" She hasn't realised she's been silent for that long.

"Uhm, what did you have in mind?" Part of her brain is screaming 'yes', but the other side, the more reserved Ruth, is holding back.

"A museum, perhaps? Or a walk? It's up to you. I'm aware we haven't really had a chance to chat, since... since Monday, and I want to ta... I mean, I thought perhaps..." She cuts him off midway.

"Yes. I'd half been thinking of doing something like that anyway." They arrange where and when to meet, and she rings off, wondering what it is that he wants, that cannot wait till tomorrow. For he does want to say something, she can tell that much by his tone.

* * *

They meet in the Naval Gardens at Greenwich. He is standing waiting when she arrives; gloved hands clasped behind his back, and he greets her warmly, gladly. The sunshine is pleasant on their backs, but there is a chill in the air that speaks to winter coming in, so they fall in to a fairly swift step. The conversation is general at first, about favoured parks; museums; art collections; places to go on the odd occasion they're not on the Grid. He tells her of places Catherine has brought him, the few times they've met up over the years.

"Have you seen her lately, Catherine?" He sighs in negative resignation.

"No. I think she's in Palestine just at the moment, but you know how it is." Ruth nods, silently. "Jo reminds...reminded me of Catherine, in a way. She was that same complex mix of innocence and intelligence, gentleness and hardness. Same moral compass, too."

"Not to mention a determination to see the right thing done, no matter what."

"Yes, indeed." He falls silent, and Ruth cannot help but wonder if Catherine would have done the same as Jo, in the case of Bibi Saparova. From what little she's heard of the Harry's daughter, she thinks on the whole, yes.

She is beginning to wonder why he asked her here; what it is he wants to say, when they reach the riverbank, by the entrance to the Greenwich foot tunnel.

"Shall we? There's a nice park on the other side, and you can always catch the DLR from Island Gardens instead." She nods her acquiescence, and they enter in to the tunnel.

"Ruth, I wanted to thank you, properly, for your support on Monday. I never envisaged such a situation on your first day back, and I'm deeply sorry that I was so... so unfocused, and that I left so much to you. It wasn't appropriate, and you shouldn't have had it to deal with, on top of everything else." She glances over at him, face sharply shadowed in the half light of the tunnel. He seems sincere, but also somewhat uncomfortable. Perhaps this is why their conversations during the week have lacked Monday's togetherness: he is embarrassed at the way he fell apart, he who never does.

"It's nothing Harry. We all have a breaking point, and we all need time to grieve; sometimes it's not the best moment for work, but by that argument, we will never let ourselves deal with what happens..."

"And in our line of work, it happens all too often. Yes." he pauses, considers.

"Nonetheless, I mean it Ruth, thank you." She nods, head twisting slightly as she seems to swallow back a word, and takes a breath.

"I'm glad I was there. I think, had I been due to start back a day later, or this week coming, it would have been...even more difficult."

"Yes."

"She was the last friend I really had in London. Most people think I'm dead, and even though I'm back, I can't just walk in to their lives again. And it's not like there are many of them, anyway." This was not an admission she had intended to make, and before the words are out, she wishes them unsaid. She can't help feeling that it sounds like an accusation. _I died for you, Harry Pearce, and now I have no one._ She doesn't mean it that way, but a glance sideways tells her there is a look of hurt in his eyes. _Damn, didn't mean to do that_. Unable, or unwilling, to respond, he takes the subject sideways.

"Are your parents still living?"

"No, thank God. I don't think they could have coped with my funeral and then my reappearance! My mother died years back, just before I started on the Grid. My step dad didn't live long after Peter's death. Parents shouldn't have to bury their children." She pauses, and realises they've both been lead to the same thought. His head bows when he speaks again;

"I spoke to Jo's mother again yesterday. She's very tearful, understandably. She knew what Jo was, so at least we weren't making up some ridiculous back-story as we've had to do in the past. And she's quite accepting, in a way. But it was a conversation I never wanted to have."

"What about her funeral?"

"They want to keep it quiet, family only." She nods, and shades her eyes as they walk out of the tunnel into the daylight.

"I suppose it's natural, really. The service stole their daughter's life...they want to...to keep her death their own." She chokes on a sob, "God I miss her." He guides her to a bench overlooking the river, and the buildings they have recently left. Head down, she breathes deeply a couple of times, then looks up again, considering the view. "She convinced me to come back." She has completely forgotten making the distinction between moving forward and coming back, in the pain of the week.

"I know."

"She really believed in it. What we're doing. More than any of us." She is very conscious of his eyes on her cheek, on her lips, even as she struggles to keep facing forward. Gone is the intense sharing of Monday afternoon. She can hardly conceive of something so intimate at this juncture.

"More than you?" She cannot help but glance at him, briefly, only for a second, really, before looking away and not answering. What is he trying to say? He tries again, "was she the only reason you returned?" She captures an errant heartbeat before it visibly betrays her. Stares at the sunlight bouncing off the water until her eyes are watering and she has to look away. Meets his gaze for just a moment, trying to read what he's really asking, really saying.

"What d'you mean?"

"You know what I mean." The words are so softly spoken, they could almost be a whisper. They're almost caressing in the warmth of their tone, and part of her would like nothing better than to fall in to that embrace, to break the tension that has arisen between them again. She doesn't. But in her heart, she catches the security, the tenderness, of what he has said, for future reference. She does know what he means, even if she cannot acknowledge or reciprocate right now. Instead, she changes the subject.

"Wasn't there something you wanted to talk to me about?"

"I asked you here today because I needed to talk about Jo to someone." She could spend an hour picking apart and analysing that one sentence, particularly with her frame of reference, having experienced the team losing various members to untimely ends. When before did Harry need to talk? Or did he go to someone else? If so, why was he here, with her? No. There must be more to it than that. He hasn't really talked all that much about Jo, anyway. He must have something work-related on his mind. So much for her day off.

"B...but there was s...something else, too."

"There'll always be something else, Ruth." His voice is different now. Not as soft, or as tender. Still gentle, but laced with an insinuation that she's not sure she can translate. Is he saying that there will always be something else between them? The job? Their past? He continues to gaze at her, as she stares at the river, his shoulders and torso turned invitingly towards her. It is quite difficult restraining herself from turning towards him, mirroring his pose. But she knows if she does that, she will lose the self control she has just managed to cling on to throughout the afternoon. They sit like this for some time, him watching her watch the water, until an involuntary shiver escapes her, and he stirs immediately. "I'm sorry Ruth, I shouldn't have kept you sitting. It's not a warm day, for all the sun. Come on, let's walk, get you warmed up." She nods in acquiescence, and pushes herself to standing. He leads the way, sets the pace. It's funny how she can accept him doing that at this level, and professionally, but not personally. Finally, he breaks the silence.

"You said Jo was your last friend, in London?"

"Yes."

"I...I would hope I count as a friend." The words are quietly spoken, and now it's his turn to refuse to meet her searching eyes. She accepts the question, nodding slowly.

"It's different...difficult. Yes. You do." He smiles with obvious sincerity.

"Good." There is so much left unsaid in this comment that Ruth cannot begin to unpack what all it could mean, not now, while she's still walking beside him. She is relieved when the DLR station comes in to view, especially as, whatever the something else is, it seems that it is not going to be said today.

"I should go Harry. Shopping to do, housework, that kind of thing." He nods, sadly.

"Thank you for coming today, Ruth. I'm sorry if I burdened you, talking about Jo. You're the only one of my old team left..." They both look away at this, and it is she who bridges the gap, finally.

"You're welcome. It was...nice to have the walk." His head jerks a little, lips press together, as if he is accepting that this is the most she will say, today. They are at the entrance gate.

"Goodbye then, Ruth."

"See you tomorrow Harry."

Sitting on the train, she starts to ruminate on the afternoon, and how it informs her experience of the week past. She almost misses her stop, she is so deep in analysis. What had Harry really wanted to say? She can accept his reasoning for talking to her, specifically, about Jo, in light of her being the only surviving member of his team from years ago. That does actually make sense. But she knows there is more to it than that. The thought that scares her is that if she actually listened, with her heart, she would know what the something else was, without being told. But does she trust herself enough? Does she trust him? She wishes now that she had let herself watch him more, as he had said these things. Perhaps then she could be certain. It is only as she puts the key in her front door that she thinks, with a small smile, that at least there is still tomorrow.


	6. Formalities, weaknesses

**Previously**: Ruth and Harry met to talk about Jo; ending in an uncomfortable conversation where what was not said was more important than what was. Ruth is conscious that Harry hasn't said something, and her analysis into what the something might be has led her to realise that it might be personal, rather than work related. Harry is somewhat disappointed that she wouldn't let him speak the words.

**Notes**: These hidden scenes, plus visible scenes with mental unpicking in Ruth's thoughts, fall during the rest of 8x04. /Edit/ For the guest who asked, I included a "previously" because it's well over a week since the last section was posted, and it's necessary that the _hidden_ conversation/scene is fresh in the mind of the reader - but I respect that not everyone has the time to go back and read it in full. Basically, I was just using the format of most weekly tv shows, including Spooks.

**Disclaimer**: I still don't own any of the Spooks characters, or any lines you may recognise. They belong to Kudos and BBC.

**A/N**: _Thanks for all the lovely reviews_ folks! Sorry this took a little while coming! I'm looking forward to moving things on: this episode struck me as very subtle in terms of H/R progression.

* * *

The following day, Monday. Thames House.

Ruth spots them at the end of the corridor, heading towards the underground parking. Heads bent, deep in conversation. Something is up. She checks her watch, No, she's not late. It's only on half seven. Something must have come in overnight. Her step quickens, and she passes like a shadow against the walls. It is a few brief minutes before she reaches the pods, and having entered the Grid, finds herself alone. Harry appears a moment later, Tariq hot on his tail.

"Ah, Ruth." He motions them both towards chairs, then leans on her station as he fills them in. "It would appear that Lucas' interrogator from Lushenka, a man by the name of Oleg Darshavin, has entered the UK illegally, to set up a meet with Lucas. Whether this is with the FSB's knowledge or not, we cannot be certain. I've sent Ros with him to the meet, see what we can glean. It could all be an FSB setup, but..."

"...but if it's not, he'd be the biggest intelligence catch in twenty years."

"Yes, quite. Can you tap into any information we might have on him, and his relationship with the FSB? I'd like to know more about what we're dealing with here, and Lucas is, understandably, coloured in his views." She glances up at him, eyes only resting on his face for a moment, before nodding her willingness. "Tariq, I'll need you to to monitor comms. Also, see about wiping that footage from Clarksdale Immigration Centre. Just supposing Darshavin is here of his own accord, the last thing we want is the FSB discovering that fact any earlier than they have to.

"Of course." He sets to with a will, and Harry stands, pausing momentarily to glance down at the brunette head, already intent on her computer. His shoulders slump, just a little.

She's not ignoring him. It's only after he has returned to his office that she looks at the space in which he stood, and realises his response was to do with her. She glances over at the office windows, the blinds slanted in such a way that she can only see the back of his head, bent over the desk. Her eyes dart back and forth from the computer screen to the window, as she debates going in. But what would she say? No. Conversations regarding anything other than work are not for this building. He established that yesterday. No, better that she continue with her various tasks, including the one he has just set her. She needs to go out at half eight, to pick up a dead drop, an errand which will have her out of the building for nearly an hour. She sets to accessing records on Darshavin, making swift phone calls, jotting notes down, tapping into databases.

* * *

From the office, he watches her. Swift and sure in her movements; precise, capable, efficient. The turn of her head as she waits for a call to connect, the half smile as she thanks a faceless voice, the way she brushes her hair out of her way. He could watch her work forever, he thinks, if it weren't for the fact he'd get nothing done. He is still overwhelmed that she is back on his Grid, back in his life - limited, sorry excuse for one that it is. Not so long ago, he had found himself looking at "her" terminal, late at night, just imagining what she used to look like, sitting at it; mentally blocking out Connie's paperwork and paraphernalia, remembering just how it was three years previously. And now, here she is once more. How could he stop looking?

The peaceful whir of electronics and tapping of keyboards is broken by Tariq letting Harry know that the Immigration Centre's tapes have been wiped, and that all record of Darhsavin's stay there, under the Hungarian pseudonym, have been erased. They now own the only copy, and it is securely behind the firewall.

"Good work. Thank you. Ros and Lucas should reach Tilbury shortly. I want to know immediately if they call in." The young man nods and returns to his station. Harry rubs his forehead, his eyes, his mouth, and thinks that it is time for a swift cup of tea. He doesn't sleep well at the best of times, and the last few weeks have not fallen into that category at all. He is dog tired, and it's not even half eight yet. He heads for the kitchenette.

* * *

She sees him go, just as she notes every movement on the Grid. As an intelligence analyst, it is always worth knowing where everyone is, especially one's boss. You never know when you'll need to impart some desperately important piece of information, and satellite tracking operatives whilst they're on the Grid itself is overkill, albeit tempting. A small box comes up her monitor. New mail. Mind focused once more, she opens it. Blinks. Brings up a different page, taps in a name. Checks the response. Again. Again. Again. Certain now, that this is something interesting. That this is something he should know about. She prints a page, and traces his footsteps.

He is leaning on the kitchen unit, back to the kettle; mug in one hand, head in the other.

"Harry?" He gazes over at her, notes the concern in those turquoise eyes.

"Just a bit of a headache, that's all." He flashes a half smile. She steps a bit closer.

"Can I get you anything?"

"No. Tea and paracetamol are remedy enough, thank you. But you can do something for me."

"Yes?"

"Keep an eye on Ros. I know she won't talk to you, but I equally know that you see everything that goes on in here, without being obvious about it. Just...keep an eye on her." There is so much he doesn't say, and she can hear it all in his voice. Ros, impenetrable, hard edged Ros, is human enough to be suffering. Harry is worried, whether for her personally, or for her capacity to work, she's not sure; probably a mixture. Once upon a time she would have been insulted, maybe even jealous, at such a request. Now it seems mundane. In point of fact, she'd have been doing so anyway. The team needs to hold together, especially now.

He washes to his mug, leaves it to drip dry.

"Was there something you wanted?" He's already walking out of the small room. She follows, one step behind.

"Your American source was right. The Intercontinental Hotel in Basle" - she passes him the printed sheet, "hosted this meeting earlier in the year. Twenty five guests and all names and passports" glances at him, to see he's getting this, "on the booking are false." They are nearly back on the Grid. She turns to face him, causing him to pause and look at her. There is always something else.

"Look, we're hearing chatter that intelligence agents are involved, but we don't know who else was there..."

"Thank you Ruth." He is brusque. "Keep this to yourself, would you? Dealing with Darshavin is our priority at the moment." She nods, eyes flickering briefly up to his, before glancing down at her paperwork and then back.

"I..I have to go. I'm picking up one of Malcolm's old dead drops." Turns and walks away swiftly.

* * *

She is later back than intended, and steps out of the pods to find Lucas and Ros just in; he is talking with Tariq, she is on the phone, presumably to an absent Harry. Ruth has time to put her files away, remove her coat and check her emails before the blonde agent turns her attention.

"Darshavin has intel on a Sudanese cell planning to bomb somewhere in central London, tomorrow. We're treating it as a viable threat. Ruth, I want everything we have on radicalism amongst Sudanese Muslims in north London. We're looking for a charity that was active six months ago and that's recently gone quiet." Ruth nods, phone already open, fingers dialing, and moves a few feet away. Ros continues, addressing the Grid as a whole. "Ok, let's raise security levels across London. We may need to close down all transport networks."

"What do we have on Sudan?" Straight from the pods, this is Harry on form; this is the Harry she can respond to without qualms; the one she can anticipate, bounce off, mirror.

"Er, Islamic governments in Khartoum have been known to harbour terror groups connected to Al Qaida, in the past" he's turned towards her, and she has to force herself to speak to the other members of the team as well, "Britain's also been particularly... aggressive over ethnic cleansing in Darfur..."

"...so lots of angry Sudanese looking for a way to get back at us..." Lucas interjects, swiftly followed by Ros,

"And Al Qaida exploit that anger, they recruit a British based cell..." Ruth's phone is ringing and she steps away to take it, blanking out the ensuing mild disagreement between Ros and Harry. Coming back, she pays no heed to them; her intel says that the field officer is right.

"Ros, information's just come in. The One Light charity in north London recruited volunteers earlier this year for aid work in Islamic north Africa... Now, it advertised in Sudanese papers, but there's no record of it in the charities register and nothing's been heard of it since." Coincidence, maybe - but in this job, not likely. She doesn't look at Harry, doesn't notice the change in his eyes.

"Let's get Special Ops down there. Ruth, I want a list of all the calls that came out of that office in the last six months." She nods and steps away, as the other continues "ok, we have three hours before Lucas meets Darshavin, let's proceed as if this is a credible threat and establish all potential targets."

* * *

Special Ops galvanised, phone calls made, emails received, intel passed on, and some time later, Ruth finally gets a moment to breathe. She gets an energy from this kind of work, she's good at it - knows she is. It's reassuring to know that she hasn't forgotten how to ride the bike, as it were.

He is in his office, alone. This might be the moment to relay on something that has been worrying at the back of her mind ever since Ros greeted her earlier. Decision made, she moves swiftly to the open door.

"May I...have a word?" Abruptly formal, and she kicks herself for it. Fair enough, their boundaries are fluid, especially outside of this building, but there is no need to act like the new girl, even if she does know he likes people to knock. He glances over at her.

"Yeah." Head back to his paperwork. He can do the formal colleague act too.

"It's about that asset of Malcolm's..." she smiles at him, trying to loosen herself, as much as anything. "A computer obsessed recluse called Nick Manning."

"Yes, the geek patriot." He's leaning back in his chair now, looking up at her, arms lightly on the desk.

"Manning spends his entire life hacking in to various British security systems..."

"...and pointing out our various weaknesses."

"Yes." Get to the point, Evershed. "Well, he's missed his monthly dead drop." She focuses on him, mentally urging him that they can regain last week's intensity of connection; she is open to it, if he is. Silence. "He's been an asset for the last eleven years. I looked up his address on the archives and went round there, but he's disappeared." His head cocks slightly as he meets her gaze.

"Is that unusual?"

"Very." She pauses, but he's clearly not picking up. "He's never missed a drop." More silence, and she has to move towards him, bridging the physical gap, if not the mental one. Hands him the card. "I found this stuck to his computer. Number doesn't exist. I think he's telling us something." She nods a little, looking intently at him, willing him to understand her logic. He refuses. His expression is quite patronising, in fact.

"Well, given we have a major terror threat on our soil, I think Mr Manning will have to wait." He is already turning back to his paperwork, signaling his lack of interest. Stupid man! Does he honestly think that she would bring some petty worry to him if it weren't connected to the current issue? Could he at least give her some credit? Clearly not. She makes a split second decision to spell it out for him.

"Manning's an expert on African terrorism." He glances up at her, and for a moment, she thinks she has him. "What if he's warning us about the Sudanese attack?"

"Any proof?" Only her gut. Which is rarely wrong.

"No."

"Well then let's work with what we have." Even more patronising. What does he think she is? Who does he think she is? Her eyes flicker for a moment; all hope of a connection lost, and she turns and leaves the room.

Sitting at her station, she fumes as she follows his instruction. If they just worked with 'what they have', they wouldn't need to do intelligence gathering, would they? He is forgetting that this is what she does, that he himself has called her a born spook. Her gut feeling tells her that Manning is connected to all this, somehow, and she is damned if she's going to let Harry bloody Pearce treat her as a naive junior operative with no experience of working on a case like this. He has also clearly forgotten her stubbornness. That he is bitter about Ros and Lucas being right regarding Darshavin's intel is clear. But he is also annoyed with her, and she has a sneaking suspicion that has nothing to do with work.

* * *

His head is pounding. He is worried about Lucas, his closeness to the Darshavin yet the necessity of his being lead agent on this; about Ros, and the fact that, while she is still suffering from Jo's death, he cannot entirely trust her judgement; about Tariq, whose youth and inexperience, coupled with utter certainty in his own brilliance, may yet endanger them all... He will not admit to being worried about Ruth. She has made it clear that she does not want his concern. However, in judging the rest of the team to be flawed in their handling, he includes her too. And so, his head aches from the strain of second guessing everyone's actions, decisions, suggestions. Harry Pearce, lone solid foundation of Section D, is missing having someone to connect with, debate with, formulate ideas with.

Ros has admitted he was right - Lucas has been manipulated, which means they all have - and there is nothing any of them could have done. That should make it better, but it doesn't. Then there is the fact that Lucas has met Darshavin in his own flat, opening a whole new can of worms - again, proving Harry's suspicions on his emotional capacity to deal with this case. He can only hope that the younger man will come in, will understand the concern, will work with him on this one.

"Harry." He barely hears her over his thoughts, as he stands contemplating the Grid at work.

"Harry!" She speaks again, a little louder this time. Hs head turns towards the sound, focuses on the brunette hair, the slender frame, nearer to him than he'd realised.

"Ruth?"

"I think Nick Manning found out about the cover being used by the Sudanese..." Here she goes again, still on Manning after he told her to drop it. He is supposed to be the boss around here, but no one follows his orders. Ros's insistence that the threat was viable springs to mind. She was right. And when has Ruth ever been wrong. He himself has told her to trust her instincts, and here he is, doubting them. Doubting her. He shakes himself, and finds the headache fading. "Rencon solutions." He focuses on her once more.

"You think he knows the target." Nods at her; tries to show his openness to her theory; that he welcomes her ideas still, no matter how dismissive he was earlier. That he welcomes her, in her entirety.

"Well that's what's so frustrating. He's hiding what he knows, out of fear." She's meeting his eyes now, turquoise eyes on brown, her insistence, her belief, so visible. "But he knows about the attack, I'm sure of it." It is almost tempting to keep her hanging on, to see how long she would try and persuade him of her conviction, to see how long they could keep up the eye contact, how intense it would get. But given his behaviour earlier, she might not play ball, and he cannot afford to lose this connection now. His headache is almost entirely gone.

"Then prove it." The words are quiet, distinct. He leans slightly towards her as he says them, looks directly into those clear eyes of hers, and thinks, not for the first time, how beautiful she is. Particularly when she is eagerly defiant.

* * *

"Then prove it." She keeps his gaze, feeling the nearness of his body, the slight breath on her face as he speaks, the faint smell of his aftershave. Whatever the problem was earlier, he has dealt with it, at least for now. Their connection is back. As he passes by her shoulder, just a little closer than he has to, she smiles, softly, her eyes glowing with a secret flame.


	7. An absolute trust

**Notes**: This section takes place between the end of 8x04 and the first ten minutes of 8x05. It does include one visible scene from 8x05, with a few extra lines, and my usual attempts at showing Ruth's thoughts throughout the conversation. I also wanted to explore Harry and Ros, after she works out that Ruth has known all along about the conspiracy, when she and Lucas were left in the dark by Harry.

**Disclaimer**: Accordingly, once again I have to say that I do not own any of the Spooks characters, or any lines you may recognise - they belong to Kudos/BBC.

**Rating**: I'm upping this to T, because of Ros's language...

**A/N**: Thanks once more to my lovely reviewers - you know who you are! I'm very glad to know that you're enjoying this! :)

* * *

Tuesday night.

Setting her wine glass on the coffee table, she eases herself into the corner of the soft sofa, kicking off her shoes and curling her feet up under her. The clock reads 11pm. It has been a long day. Considering they had saved the Square Mile from being raised to the ground at half past nine that morning, it couldn't be anything but. Organising the resulting chaos had taken the better part of the day - from the bomb squad, to Boris Gulyanov and his team, to the Home Secretary... The paperwork had taken forever, and there would be more to do tomorrow.

Then there was the personal fallout; Lucas clearly suffering from having handed Darshavin over to the Russians; Ros from having stared down a bomb capable of eviscerating thousands, to the last second; these made Harry's resultant mood from dealing with the Home Secretary quite mundane. She had watched as he had ordered Lucas home, given Ros the lightest duties she would accept, and then poured himself a stiff scotch. He was still bent over paperwork when she'd finally left, at ten; unwilling to leave him alone on the Grid, but unable to persuade him of the benefits of going home himself. Just half an hour more, he had said.

Her mobile rings, the muted sound breaking her reverie. Unable to see the phone immediately, she fumbles round the sofa, hands searching under the cushions, until her fingers grasp the cold plastic. The screen bears the legend 'Harry Mob', and in the moment that it takes to answer it, she wonders what the hell has gone wrong now.

"Yes Harry?"

"Walker's dead."

"Who? What?" Her voice is bleary as she tries to process his greeting, through her already tired mind.

"Did I wake you?" He has the grace to sound a little contrite. "I thought you'd still be up."

"No...no... My, I was just getting my head out of work, that's all. Walker. You mean Samuel Walker? CIA? What happened?"

"His body was found on the ground floor of the CIA's obbo post in Hammersmith. It would appear he threw himself over one of the mezzanine balconies..." She recognises the trail in his voice.

"...But you don't think that's the case?"

"I don't know enough to be sure about anything right now, Ruth. The cousins are already spinning something about him having cancer, which I don't buy for a minute. But Samuel Walker didn't strike me as the type to commit suicide, illness or no." She can't help wondering why he felt the need to ring her at gone eleven to tell her this, when she'll be back on the Grid in eight hours time, and perhaps he picks up on that, as he continues; "I'm sorry, you've had a long hard day, I know. I just nee..wanted to hear someone else's reaction, to check my reactions weren't out of proportion."

"Yes. I mean, no. Err, yes. Yes, I understand. I don't think your reaction is out of proportion. We'll look into it. Tomorrow." She hears him sigh, at the other end of the line. "Harry, you're still there, aren't you? Go home. Get some rest." Advice he often gives, but seldom takes.

"Thank you Ruth, I think I will. Apologies for disturbing you."

"You didn't..." but he's already rung off, and the words echo against the silence.

* * *

Friday, early afternoon.

But Wednesday and Thursday pass with very little time for debating the officially unsuspicious death of the American agent. Harry is called to numerous meetings outside of Thames House, only some of which she knows the details of. The team are chasing their tails on paperwork, and Ruth herself is busy catching up on the weekly security reports, and deciphering intel on a potential homegrown threat resulting from recently leaked army documents. Lucas mentions the suicide once or twice; apparently Sarah is quite thrown by it. Ros comments that she can't be as thrown as Walker, which is a pity. She flashes a rare smile just before an argument breaks out. Ruth has to admit that she's with Ros on this one. She cannot comprehend what Lucas sees in Sarah. And so it goes. The late night phone call is neither mentioned nor repeated.

It is lunch time on Friday before Walker's name passes directly between them. Lucas has gone out to the memorial service, primarily for Sarah's sake. Ros rolls her eyes at this, and acerbically comments to thin air that since one of them should be actually doing some spying, she will be meeting an asset. Tariq has headed out to a nearby deli, with orders for the three of them, when Ruth hears the blare of the BBC news from Harry's office. Now might be the moment for the promised discussion. She walks through, not bothering to knock, and finds him staring at the screen, his countenance inscrutable. He nods briefly at her, and turns the screen so she can see. A large photo of Walker is emblazoned across the screen, and the reporter is summing up his achievements in life. There is, of course, no mention of the fact that he is a spy.

"Such tasteful language they use. Diplomat." There is a mixture of scorn and amusement as she says it, in the full knowledge that if it were a British agent, the term would be civil servant. He looks up at her, a twinkle in his eye.

"The world we live in, eh Ruth?" The smile is quickly replaced by a frown, though, as he glances back at the screen, to the blonde newsreader commenting on Walker's 'newly diagnosed cancer'. "Forty minutes before Samuel Walker was found, he phoned me to arrange to meet. Needless to say, he never made it."

"Coincidence?"

"Hardly." His hand reaches across his face, and as he turns back to her, he rests his chin on his knuckles, before looking up, brows furrowed. "No suicidal person makes an arrangement like that, not more than half an hour before killing themselves. No. Someone knew he had information, and he was murdered as a result."

"Harry, you had to share that intel with him. It was the right thing to do. Especially now we know how far this conspiracy is willing to go." He looks directly at her for a moment, hazel eyes keenly piercing, and she feels certain he picked up her unspoken admonishment that he is not to blame, however obscurely, for Walker's death. For a normally sensible, logical man, he has a great ability at taking the blame for the deaths of others, most especially when they are little to do with him. Breaking the silence that has erupted, she continues, "did Walker say what he wanted?"

"Just that it was about Basle and went to the heart of the intelligence services. Less than an hour later he was dead." It is weighing on him, no matter what she says. Looking down at his head, it strikes her that there are more white and grey hairs there than the she remembers. There are more lines around his temples, his forehead. The piercing eyes of a moment ago look up a her again, almost pathetic in their melancholia. "Somebody wanted him silenced, Ruth."

She can only meet his gaze for a moment before the urge to touch him wells up in her chest, and she has to look away. Deep down, she knows, that one day, some day, probably soon, he will surprise her with a moment just like this; her self control will not be as swift and her fingers will touch his. She is just not sure she dares to consider what will happen as a result.

The hiss of the pods announces Tariq returning with their lunch, and the discussion is placed in abeyance again. However, it is not long before Lucas is back, abruptly full of the intelligence from Caulfield about the reason for Walker's death. She watches Harry's face carefully as the younger agent holds forth on what the American has said. He doesn't say as much, but Ruth has a feeling he is still not totally convinced by the explanation. He certainly doesn't look it, and she cannot admit to being persuaded herself. But when Lucas winds up, glancing at their boss, the older man's face is open and even innocent - a look she sincerely mistrusts - and he shrugs his shoulders, as if to say 'it's not our business.'

* * *

Saturday morning.

It has not been a good morning, Harry thinks, as he turns to the clearly irate blonde Section Chief. It was never going to be, really, with a visit from the Home Secretary first thing. He always knows things are bad if Nicholas deigns to appear in his office - and on a weekend morning, too. The man is perturbed, that much is clear, and his worry is beginning to pervade Harry's own mood. That, followed by the uncomfortable conversation with his two senior field agents, where he had to admit to having kept them in the dark, meant that this day was already shaping up to be problematic. Now Ros has figured out, as he should have known she would, that his blustered excuse of not briefing her because he had nothing solid is complete whitewash. In retrospect, he should have included Ruth in the earlier briefing - she played having no prior knowledge of the conspiracy very well, but Ros is too experienced to fool. Particularly when it comes to Ruth.

"You told her before the rest of the team." The tone is accusatory, her blue eyes are icy. "This is bullshit Harry. It's bad enough that you didn't brief us earlier, but then you categorically lied when I asked you why I wasn't told. You said you had nothing substantive, that it was rumour. That you were waiting for something concrete. Why tell her and not us?"

"So I was. I asked Ruth to look into it because she is our analyst. It's her job." He tries his best to stay calm. He knows that the stress of the previous weeks is affecting her; hell, it's only a dozen days since Jo's death. Really, he should be enforcing leave on her, not bringing her into an investigation of a world conspiracy.

"You still should have told me." She is mutinous, her temper bubbling just below the surface. He is conscious that the briefing room walls are not soundproof, and although the team are pretty good about not eavesdropping, he doesn't want to give them no other option.

"You're quite right Ros. I should have told you." He pauses, speaks quietly. "In my defense, I only told Ruth during the Bendorf fiasco because she walked in just as the situation was kicking off, and I didn't know if this conspiracy had anything to do with that. I needed someone to look into it, she was available." Before the words are fully out, he realises the mistake he has made,

"The Bendorf situation... You knew. You knew about this then, you suspected them, and you sent me in blind." Now she is furious. Like a brittle flame, she is about to explode, something which has only happened a very few times in the years he has known her. It is time to act swiftly.

"Yes Ros, I sent you in blind. As your boss, that is my prerogative. Had that meeting been let go ahead, as we all expected it to be, we would have either had intel, or not. Once we had something substantial, I was prepared to share that with the team. Until that point, it wasn't necessary. Now we do have something substantive, I need the entire team's focus, yours included. There is just a touch of asperity in his tone, enough to reach her ears, and she pauses.

"Alright. But I still think you should have trusted me, especially after what happened." She turns towards the sliding doors, and it is only as her fingers touch the handle that he says softly.

"I do trust you Ros. And after what happened, I rather thought you had enough on your plate." His head drops at this, but not before they have made eye contact, and she has nodded, briefly, her acceptance. He hears the door pull shut, sighs, and rests his head in his hands. Now is not the moment for trust to break down on the team, especially when there are potential rogue agents flying around, trying to recreate the world. That said, he thinks he managed to deflect Ros from her anger regarding his trust of Ruth, which is no bad thing. Especially as he knows he was bending the truth when he told her that he 'only' told Ruth because of the situation at hand. From somewhere deep inside him comes the knowledge that he would have told her no matter what, for she is the one upon whom he has built an absolute trust.


	8. Hope kindling

A much belated update! So sorry it has been three months... This chapter brings us up to the end of episode 5.

**Disclaimer**: Once again I have to say that I do not own any of the Spooks characters, or any lines you may recognise - they belong to Kudos/BBC.

* * *

Sunday, Late afternoon. He hears her footsteps, swift and sure, as she comes level with him, shoulder to shoulder, gazing over Tariq's shoulder at the monitor. Senses the rise and fall of her chest as she assesses the situation;

"Any news?"

"Still no sign of him." The younger man, barely looking round, fills her in.

The three are silent, for a time; the faint whir of computers, and then Ros's footsteps echoing over the comms are all that they hear. Harry can feel the warmth of her body, standing so close, yet not actually touching. Can smell her moisturiser, her perfume, her hair; the scents blending together to create something that is uniquely Ruth. Momentarily, he finds it reassuring that she still uses the same creams and toiletries as she did years ago.

"Ros is on the move." Tariq informs Lucas and the other operatives. Again, they wait, the tension building. A faint rustle tells him that she has crossed her arms tightly, hands in her armpits, shoulders slightly hunched, eyes fixed on the back or Tariq's head. He glances across and down at her for a second, her face a study, fine as porcelain, smooth and supple. Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale her infinite variety. Over the comms, they can hear Ros' footsteps pound on metal steps, her breath coming quicker and louder, the click of her gun as she readies it. He senses Ruth jump, slightly, when the field agent's voice shouts a warning to Colville. Knows her eyes are on him as he speaks to the team.

"Contact made. Standby everyone."

The sounds of heels on grit and dusty debris gives them little inkling more than the fact that Ros is moving, swiftly. She is no longer panting, but the frequency is such that they can hear the tautened, wire-like nerve of her breath as she proceeds with caution. Ruth inhales sharply as Colville speaks, his nasal voice clear, ringing round the Grid. But Ros remains calm; if there is a tremor in her speech it is slight enough for them to ignore. And now it seems that the ex-6 officer, unravelling though he is, may explain himself. Then a shot rings out, and in his fear for his agent, Harry barely notices Ruth's hand on his arm. It is only there for a fraction of a second, as it becomes apparent that Ros is uninjured, and giving pursuit. He turns, then, to reassure her, but she is gone.

* * *

She makes for the ladies - it is the one place she can be relatively sure he won't follow - not that she thinks he would, at this juncture, but just in case. Her breathing is as harried as Ros' had been, loud over the comms, her pulse pounding, throbbing. Yes, it is mostly from shock as the tension broke; and yes, she probably would have grasped anyone standing next to her, at that moment. But it wasn't just anyone. It was Harry. For a split second, she lost her self control.

The idiocy of all this strikes her hard. She is a grown woman, panting, in the ladies toilet, because she just touched the man she has loved for years, for the first time since she kissed him goodbye on that cold, misty morning. The fact that he has touched her repeatedly since she returned - his hand on her back, her shoulder, her arm - is irrelevant. This time, she made the move. This time, she reached out. This time...

"Don't make a decision you can't live with." She is sure Ros has said this in her hearing, more than once. It is the blonde agent's byline. Now she has made a decision, subconsciously; broken her own unspoken rule, and she has to live with where the consequences will take her. She takes a deep, steadying breath. Smooths her shirt, her skirt, her hair. Reaches for the door. She will go back to her station, check on the intel that is due in regarding Walker's phone use, keep an eye on Harry and Tariq from a distance. There is no need for her to hang over their shoulders, nothing she can do or add. As soon as she is needed for something, she will do it. He probably didn't even notice her touch. Probably presumes she thought of something that needed doing. Probably is far to engrossed in the unfolding situation to give it a second thought.

This is no big deal.

She tells herself this repeatedly as she sedately makes her way back to her desk. The problem is, Ruth Evershed knows that it is not true.

* * *

"Good work Tariq." He briefly clasps the lad's shoulder, before turning away. Lucas has called in to say that Ros is safe. All is well, for now; at least, in terms of the Colville case. He is glad the former MI6 officer has spared them all the multitude of problems that would have arisen had he been taken alive. It is true, there will be any amount of questions and reviews as to how he could achieve what he did; why they didn't catch him sooner, and so on - but Harry is used to that kind of bureaucracy. It keeps a lot of folk on the fourth floor in jobs, after all.

As he moves back to his office, in search of a stiff drink, his eye is caught by Ruth. Her head down, her hands moving swiftly over paperwork, and he recalls the feel of her hand on his arm. He changes course, and moves over to her shoulder, bends down, palms on her desk.

"Ruth?"

"...yes Harry?" Anyone else would think she was just finishing off a sentence of a tricky report, but he can read her tones, her minute movements, her choices. She is fiercely trying to pretend that she is not bothered.

"Are you...ok?"

"I'm fine. Just trying to get this done, should have been finished days ago." She gives a half laugh, still refusing to raise her head, to look at him.

"Ros is safe. Colville shot himself."

"I know. I heard. I...didn't see there was anything useful to be done, over there. Better to get on with this." He can see the tension in her neck, the slight colour in her cheeks.

"Ruth, I..." She glances up at him now, turquoise eyes flashing a note of warning. The very smallest shake of her head. This is not up for discussion. Not here, not now. Before he has a chance to reform his sentence, she cuts across him.

"There's something you should know. About Walker." His ears prick up; any lead would be good at the moment. "I was getting nowhere with cross referencing his calls, or finding a potential second phone, so I checked with the nearest cell tower. Apparently, Walker's phone was active in the building around the time of his death. So was another number. Just one other. No more than five feet away from him." She watches him as she says it, neck curled round, head angled so that her eyes can follow his.

"Who, Ruth?" She can be so bloody aggravating, sometimes, much as he loves her. And he does. But in these moments, when she pauses, when she adds in detail, trickle by trickle, before giving the actual nub of information, he could cheerfully grasp her in his arms and kiss it out of her. He probably still wouldn't get the intel any quicker, but at least he would get more enjoyment out of the waiting.

"Sarah Caulfield."

"What?" He puts his hand out for the print out that he knows she'll have ready, and is not disappointed. "I take it you've double checked this?...Of course you have." She's Ruth, after all. His Ruth. She always verifies. Her silence bears him out on this. He finds itself rubbing his eyes, his mouth. From one thing to another. That is the nature of the job. "Come with me." It is an order. He straightens, and turns on his heel, still grasping the paper. Behind him, he can hear her chair scrape out, the soft whoosh as her clothing falls into place, the quiet click of her footfall following his.

In his office he heads straight for the drawer that houses his Scotch, and pours a measure. Seeing her standing, questioningly, just by the sliding door, he nods for it to be closed, and gestures to the bottle. She shakes her head. Never was a big whisky drinker.

"Sit down, Ruth." He does likewise, keeping behind the desk. "Now. What are we going to do? Do you suppose Lucas has any idea, any suspicions?" She watches him closely, silently, for a minute, eyes distant.

"No... No. I don't think he does. He's too caught up in her... Too caught up in the exhilaration of..."

"...An affair, yes. Especially considering he's been alone for so long." Harry pauses, and realises a moment too late the audible empathy he feels for Lucas is not necessarily something he should bring up here, and now, with her of all people. Ruth shoots him a piercing glance before lowering her eyes to the hands laid in her lap.

"Loneliness does drive us to actions we later regret."

He wonders if she is actually referring to the case in hand, or, in her use of "us", to themselves, or even to her relationship with George. He rolls his lips together, teetering on the bring of speech. Perhaps it is the relief that Ros is unharmed. Perhaps it is the whiskey talking. It might even be those glimmers of hope that he has felt occasionally since her return - either way, the words are out before he can stop them.

"It wasn't from loneliness that I..."

"I think you need to pull Lucas in. Tell him." She cuts across him sharply. She cannot go into discussions about his loneliness, or hers. Not now. Not here. Not with him. She cannot bear to admit that it was the complete lack of warm, gentle companionship that drove her into George's arms. Ostensibly, that it was her need of comfort that led to his murder. She cannot admit this to the man that she refused that comfort to. That she refused that comfort from. She rushes on, words falling over themselves. "Tell him we know Sarah was in the building. That she was close to Walker at the time of his death. See how he responds..."

"Which will tell us whether he does know, or suspect, yes." He is nodding, his eyes searching her face until she lifts her eyes, almost unwillingly. Once caught, though, she holds his gaze steady, her expression unreadable.

The silence is broken by the door opening to reveal Lucas, spotlessly suave.

"Ah, Lucas. Come in. How is Ros?"

"Shaken, but you know Ros; she'll live to fight another day. I tried suggesting she go home..."

"Good. She could do with a rest."

"...But I'm not sure she took my advice." Harry grimaces, and brushes the comment aside.

"There's something you need to know, Lucas." The younger man appears to pay no attention to him, and Harry would be annoyed, if it weren't for the fact that he can hear the same footsteps that have turned the others' heads. At the sight of Ros making swiftly for his door, he twitches in exasperation, and greets her "you shouldn't be here."

"Why not?"

Good God, why is she always so cool, so unflustered? In the silence of his mind, the answer comes - because she is his outstanding agent. He just wishes that at times, she could be a little less like him.

"Go home, get some rest." There is no real feeling behind the words, he knows she won't pay any heed either way.

"That's the last place I want to be." She glances round the conclave. "What's up?"

"Ruth's been going through Walker's phone records." He meets her eyes with the faintest nod, as the other two look down at her.

"Erm, I wasn't getting anything useful, so I requested records from the nearest relay tower to the building where Walker died. I got a full list of mobile phones active in the same cell around the time of his death." Harry watches her looking down, at her papers, even at him; anywhere but at Lucas and Ros.

"And?" It takes a moment more for Ruth to meet Ros's eyes, then Lucas's.

"One of them was Sarah Caulfield's." It is some kind of threesome. At the moment she catches Lucas's eyes, he turns to Harry, as if to receive confirmation that this isn't some kind of trap. Harry does this, before once again almost imperceptibly encouraging Ruth to continue. "She was in the building where Walker died. When he died." It's almost impossible to watch both men as the words fall from her lips. It is clear, though, that Lucas is shocked, which answers one of their questions, she hopes. A glance to Harry seems to confirm this.

"Are you sure about this?"

"Sarah was no more than five meters away when he fell." She still has the print out that explains this, and places it in her co-worker's outstretched hand. He has lost two shades of colour in as many seconds.

"Lucas, she may not be responsible. There could be any number of reasons why she was there." There is compassion in Ros's tone; an understanding of the gutted feeling such a betrayal brings. Which is unsurprising, given the last few days she has had.

"There's only one way to find out for sure." Harry's voice is soft as well, and his eyes steady when Lucas manages to look up. "You must ask her, but be sure not to raise suspicion. If she has nothing to hide, she should tell you."

He nods slowly, shoulders sagging.

It is Ros who breaks the silence, by clapping him on the back, "Come on, I need a coffee." And with a nod to the others, they turn and leave.

Ruth rises to leave behind them, and he watches her go, until she reaches the door, pauses, shuts it and turns back a step or two.

"Harry?"

"Yes Ruth?"

"I never thought it was loneliness. When you...when we... I didn't think that. I never did. I still don't." The words come tumbling out, and she can feel her pulse quicken, her temperature rising in blush, her hand shake a little as she reached back to the door handle. In a moment she is outside the office, the door shut, legs like jelly treading the worn path to her desk. The grid appears empty, but for the back of Tariq's head at his terminal. She sits; slowly, mindfully; takes out a folder and places a sheet inside.

From his desk, Harry watches her pensively, a new hope kindling.


End file.
